


Deus Ex Dracarys

by sir_red



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate History, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-22 11:49:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3727756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sir_red/pseuds/sir_red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This grew out of my frustration with the direction ASOIAF is taking (and how long it is taking to finish). I love the series but I wonder sometimes about points of divergence and the potential for an alternate fictional history. There are a number influences which will become apparent as we proceed. </p><p>Please note this isn't going to be at all smutty, well no more smutty than the original ASOIAF. So if that's what you're looking for, look elsewhere (possibly at one of my other works).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Littlefinger

Chapter 1

Kings Landing - 298AC

It was late and there were only a few candles lit in Petyr’s rooms. The smattering of light cast the furnishings into stark relief and drew attention to the gleaming metal surfaces. 

Petyr Baelish didn’t notice the grandiosity of his apartments. He didn’t notice the gold leaf panelling or the rare hard woods from the Summer Isles or even the set of three silver mockingbirds he had ordered from a silversmith in White Harbour and shipped to Kings Landing. There was a time when these ostentatious displays of wealth would have encouraged a sense of deep satisfaction. But it had been a long time since wealth alone had been enough to sate the hunger inside of him. 

Most men, Petyr had often reflected, were simple creatures. They desired wealth or sex or prestige or vengeance. Petyr wanted more. 

Petyr wanted… everything.

Petyr knew that some men thought of themselves as puppeteers. The true manipulators, masters of the game like Varys or seasoned players like Pycelle, such men would believe they pulled the strings while lesser men danced. Petyr had no such illusions. It was impossible to truly control the great lords of Westeros. Like the mindless beasts they claimed as their sigils, once they began their hunt all a man could hope was to gently guide them one way or another. Petyr sought to steer their wrath and fury in the direction that most profited him.

Even in Kings Landing, where intrigue and deception could swallow a man and his house whole, few days saw more events of import than this one. It had begun with the Hand of the King, Eddard Stark defying the King, Robert Baratheon the first of his name. Lord Stark had resigned his post and decided to leave the capitol. It had ended in Lord Stark attacked in the streets of Kings Landing by none other than Ser Jaime Lannister. 

Lord Stark had survived, several of his sworn shields had not, Petyr had no particular feelings about any of the men and would generally be indifferent to whether they lived or died. However, Petyr had resented having to leave the scene. Abandoning Stark had put much at risk but Petyr had long since realised that the business of violence was a matter for lesser men than he. Yet all was not lost, the wolf had survived and it might still provide Petyr with several opportunities.

Petyr entered the main room of his apartments. He saw his serving man Pate, the plain faced man lay on the ground clearly dead. A sword protruded from Pate’s chest, perfectly placed as though on display. 

The death of a faithful servant was enough to upset Petyr, not because he had any affection for the man but for a host of other reasons, not least of which the need to dispose of the body. 

However, it was immediately apparent that Petyr had other concerns.

The dining table had been laid out for a feast. Three places had been set at the table and no expense had been spared. There was more food than any three persons could possibly hope to eat. The placements were fit for any great lord, with delicate crockery plates imported from Yi Ti and silver cutlery. Petyr was intimately familiar with almost every item. He counted three half consumed glasses of Dornish wine and an empty flagon in the centre of the table, all purchased with his coin.

Yet even the thought of paying for a feast held in his rooms to which he was not invited paled in significance to the two gentlemen sitting at the table. The first was Grand Maester Pycelle. The Grand Maester’s flowing, white beard had become matted with chunks of vomit and thin streams of blood. He was obviously dead, his eyes staring aimlessly at the table in front of him and his mouth hanging open in an expression of surprise. 

The second man’s chest was similarly covered in bloodied vomit and his open hand rested on the table in front of him. He was dressed in his otherwise gleaming armour and the gold cloak of his station. Petyr noticed the empty scabbard by his side and realised whose sword had killed his serving-man. The second man had been born the son of a butcher, yet he had risen high, with a great deal of assistance from Petyr himself, to become Commander of the City Watch, sometimes called the Gold Cloaks. His name was Janos Slynt and he was just as dead as the Grand Maester.

Too many pieces had been placed on the board in front of him. Petyr knew cyvasse as well as any eastern magister, yet the sheer quantity of information which was before him struck him, perhaps for the first time in his life, dumb. He was caught, like a deer before the hunter, uncertain how to act. A fact which added to his anxiety was that he was certain his life would rest upon the decision. 

A short, slender man entered the room. The man appeared from a secret passage in the alcove beyond the dining room. The man was dressed in black with a single silver pin of a mockingbird perched at his throat. He was slender and wore a peculiar beard which only covered his chin. He was dressed in the finest silks, the cost of his clothing alone would have fed a family of smallfolk for a year. 

The man was Petyr Baelish.

Petyr looked at his double as he confidently strode past the massacre at Petyr’s dining table. Petyr’s double came to stand before Petyr and smiled a careful, knowing sort of smile. Half of his mouth twisted up in a way that was both arrogant and mocking and set Petyr to wondering if he actually looked like that. 

Petyr had heard of men who could through training, wigs and special powders could look like other men. The spider Varys was said to be a master of such disguises. But this man did not merely resemble Petyr… he was Petyr, the likeness was such that had Petyr not known any better he would have insisted that this was his twin. 

Only the more Petyr stared at the man’s face, his own face, reflected back at him the more it seemed…wrong. The face became increasingly indistinct, like a reflection in a pond after a stone has been dropped into it.

“It doesn’t last long,” the not-Petyr told him, “lies never do once they are known for lies.” 

“Who are you?” Petyr’s was relieved his voice was calm and careful, though he felt real fear for the first time in many years.

The not-Petyr didn’t speak. Instead he performed a courtly bow and then pulled out a chair gesturing for Petyr to sit. Petyr noted that the place had already been set, though the cutlery was in disarray. It looked like Petyr had gotten up from dinner to tend to some matter before returning. Only that was the illusion, like the man’s face, nothing in the room was what it appeared to be.

Petyr did not sit down. 

“I could make use for a man of your talents…” Petyr said, licking his lips nervously, he stole a covetous glance at the entrance to his apartments. 

The not-Petyr laughed. It was laugh of steel piercing flesh, of blade meeting blade, a laugh of blood. 

Then the man struck Petyr. His hand moved so quickly that his fist hit Petyr’s flesh before he could even realise that the man was attacking him. The man’s fist smacked into Petyr’s neck and suddenly Petyr found that he could not breath. Petyr grasped as his throat as he tried to gulp down mouthfuls of air. A small trickle of air entered his ruined throat but it was not enough to relieve the pressure in his chest. Petyr felt like he was drowning on dry ground. 

With a surprisingly delicate motion the man placed his hands at Petyr’s waist and guided him to the chair that he had pulled away from the table. Then he tucked Petyr in at his place at the groaning dinner table, effortlessly lifting the chair that Petyr was sitting on and placing it under the table.

Then not-Petyr strode across the room, he pulled the sword free of Pate the serving man’s chest and came to stand before Petyr. The not-Petyr stood next to Janos Slynt and Petyr realised that the sword belonged to Slynt.

“Do you see now?” the man asked.

Even as not-Petyr spoke the illusion of his face began to fail. It was like watching a boy become a man in a manner of moments. The stranger became taller, his chest became broader, his hair and eyes changed colour and he became, though Petyr would never admit it out loud, more comely. 

The man had straight pure white hair, cropped above his neck and eyes the colour of rubies. The red eyes of the man seemed to glow in the faint light from the few remaining candles. 

Petyr saw. The man had set it all out, using Pycelle, Slynt, Petyr and even the serving man Pate, like the players in a mummer’s farce. 

A few pieces of parchment even lay on the table close to Petyr but facing away from him, as though Petyr had laid them out for his guests to read. Petyr tried to read the small writing upside down but all he could make out in the poor light was a list of names.

Petyr wheezed and his breathing started to return to normal. He grasped at the table and tried to stand but found he was still weak. In the process he knocked over his wine glass, the wine spilled across the table as rich and red as blood. 

The not-Petyr, his disguise now completely dissolved, shook his head sadly. Then he lifted Slynt’s sword stepped around the table and, in a single motion, rammed it through Petyr’s chest and into the chair behind him. As Petyr began to black out he realised that the stranger had stabbed him through the same scar that Brandon Stark had made all those years earlier.


	2. Tower of the Hand

Ned woke in his chambers. That was surprising for two reasons. First he had not expected to wake up and second he had certainly not expected to do so in his Chambers. After all his Chambers were in the Tower of the Hand and he was no longer Hand of the King. 

He awoke to a familiar, though unexpected face at his bedside. Had Ned have guessed he might never have expected to see this face in Kings Landing, let alone in the Red Keep. 

The man was a Master, a petty Lord of the North. Had he been a southerner he would have been a Landed Knight. The man was ultimately one of Ned’s bannermen, though he wasn’t sworn directly to Winterfell but to one of Ned’s other bannermen Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbour.

His name was Selwyn Tyranys and he was the only Northern Lord whose House could only count its fealty to the Starks in years, rather than decades, centuries or even millennia. Master Tyranys had only come to the North some nine years earlier, in the closing months of the Greyjoy rebellion. He had sworn fealty to Lord Manderly and received lands to the South of White Harbour. 

Tyranys was roughly of age with Ned, though he carried the years far better. His face was handsome and he bore the pure white hair of Ancient Valyria. His most striking feature, however, was his eyes. They were bright red, the colour of blood and in the semi-dark of Ned’s chambers they glowed like two embers. 

“Good morning my Lord,” Master Tyranys said politely.

He passed Ned a cup of water and Ned drank from it. He struggled to sit up in bed, the exhaustion of his body threatening to drag him under again. 

“Tyranys,” Ned said hoarsely, “what are you doing here?” 

“Alyn let me in,” Tyranys admitted, “I convinced him that you would want to see me. I apologise if I was improper.” 

Ned was willing to overlook the impropriety, depending of course on how Tyranys answered the next few questions. Tyranys’ loyalty after all was relatively new and while Ned hated to admit it, his time in the capitol was making him re-evaluate how willingly he was to trust others, even men he might have counted as allies.

“Why are you in Kings Landing?” Ned said, his voice becoming stronger from use. 

“I was in Pentos,” Tyranys explained, “on business. I decided to come to Kings Landing to see some of the merchants here about transporting Stonegarden goods to the East.” 

Stonegarden was the town which Tyranys had established on the Northern edge of the Neck. Due to Tyranys’ existing’ wealth, his contacts in the East and the hardwork of his people, it was quickly becoming a new centre of commerce in the North. 

“Did you bring men?” Ned demanded. 

Ned found himself seriously worrying about the size of his guard. He was keenly aware that the Lannisters had a stronger force in Kings Landing and he wasn’t willing to risk trusting too many other lords. 

“Yes,” Tyranys agreed calmly, “I have a hundred men at arms. Fifty of my own and fifty of Lord Manderly’s, all are loyal to you my Lord.”

“You have Manderly men?” Ned asked, confused.

“Lord Manderly and I work closely together to provide opportunities for the craftsmen of our cities and many in Stonegarden have gone into business with those in Whiteharbour.

“I was in Pentos negotiating an arrangement to move Whiteharbour and Stonegarden goods through Pentos and on to the other Free Cities. We’re also going to supply Stoneguarden pottery for Pentosi foodstuffs.

“The Pentosi are rarely displayed by displays of wealth but show them enough swords and they tend to be impressed fairly easily,” Tyranys finished. The Volantene-come-Northman spoke simply and Ned was inclined to believe him. 

Wyman Manderly was the richest and probably the most capable of his bannermen and Tyranys’ story had the ring of truth though the timing seemed suspicious to Ned and he had no doubt it would to others as well. 

“So you have a hundred Northmen here in Kings Landing,” Ned said out loud thoughtfully, it wasn’t a question though Tyranys responded anyway.

“Yes my lord,” Tyranys agreed, smiling.

Ned realised after a moment it was probably the first time someone had described Tyranys as a Northmen. While Ned had always wanted to have non-northerners settle the unoccupied lands in his domain, he knew that one of the biggest struggles would be convincing his bannermen to accept them. He didn’t doubt that Tyranys had had to work hard to prove himself and, knowing the nature of northmen, his house would be proving themselves for centuries to come. After all, it had only been recently that the Manderly’s were accepted and they had lived in the North for a thousand years. 

“Do you know anything about what has happened in the capitol?” Ned asked.

Tyranys shook his head.

“Only the murmurs I have heard so far,” Tyranys admitted, “I have only been here since this morning. When I heard you had been attacked I came straight to the Red Keep.”

Tyranys smiled wryly.

“I wasn’t sure they would let me in but I managed to convince them I was a leal bannermen of yours,” he shrugged. 

“The ship you brought here,” Ned continued, “is it one of yours?” 

“Yes,” Tyranys agreed, “the Manticore, I always hated the name but mariners get upset when you try to change their ship names.” 

“I need you to take my daughters back to the North,” Ned said after a moment, “I need them to be safe.”

“Yes my lord,” Tyranys agreed. 

“Speak to Alyn,” Ned continued, “I’ll have him send twenty men home with Arya and Sansa. I’d like another twenty of yours with them.” 

“Yes my lord,” Tyranys said again.

“I want the rest to remain here,” Ned continued, “I’ll have to send a Raven to Lord Manderly explaining...everything.” 

“I’m sure Lord Manderly will understand,” Tyranys agreed, “he has very strong feelings about the duty of a bannerman.

“My men are yours, Lord Stark,” Master Tyranys said simply. 

Ned nodded gratefully. 

Alyn knocked on the door.

“His Grace, the King,” Alyn announced. 

The King strode into the room. He was dressed in enough silk to cover a tent and wore his customary crown.

“Who is this?” the King asked Ned, nodding to Tyranys.

“Master Tyranys,” Ned told the King.

“The Volantene,” the King grunted.

Master Tyranys executed a neat bow.

“Your Grace,” he said politely, “how might I serve?”

“Leave,” the King told him bluntly.

Tyranys bowed once again to both the King and to Ned and then briskly walked out of the room without another word.

“He is obedient,” the King said dryly, “I’ll grant him that much.”

“He is a good man,” Ned agreed.

“Good men don’t always make good lords,” Robert argued, though there was no heat in his tone, “Jaime Lannister has fled the capitol.”

“Did you send men after him, your Grace?” Ned asked.

“Seven Hells Ned!” the King roared, “I owe his father half of my kingdom!” 

The King paused and looked at Ned thoughtfully. Then he reached into the pocket of his cloak and pulled out a silver badge. He threw the badge, the symbol of the Office of the Hand, onto the bed beside Ned.

“You take that badge off again and I’ll pin it on Jaime Lannister,” the King said, but his tone lacked the usual roar.

Not trusting himself to speak, Ned simply nodded.

Robert sat heavily in one of the chairs beside Ned’s bedside. The chair groaned ominously but held. 

“Is everything alright your Grace?” Ned asked the King.

“Littlefinger is dead,” the King told him, staring into the distance. 

“How?” Ned asked shocked, with sudden realisation, “Jaime Lannister...” he fumed. 

“Enough,” the King roared again, “I won’t hear another word about Jaime Lannister...”

“Littlefinger was standing there when Jaime butchered my men,” Ned fumed. 

“Jaime had already left the City,” King Robert told him, “Varys is certain.”

Ned grunted. 

“Littlefinger got his revenge,” the King said wryly, “I always said that man was too clever by half.” 

Ned looked at the King, perplexed. 

“He poisoned them,” the King explained, “Grand Maester Pycelle and Janos Slynt.

“I can’t imagine a more unlikely trio but there you have it.” 

“Why would Littlefinger poison them?” Ned demanded.

“The man always was a craven,” Robert noted, “your brother proved that much.

“Perhaps if he thought they were poisoned they would be no threat to him. Slynt showed he was wrong, he ran Littlefinger through before puking his guts out...

“... what a waste,” the King said disgusted, “now I have to replace a Master of Coin, a Grand Maester and the Captain of the City Watch all in one day.” 

Ned mulled it over thoughtfully.

“What reason would Littlefinger have to poison them?” Ned wondered out loud, “what does he gain from it?”

The King grunted as he withdrew a few small pieces of parchment from his enormous cloak and dropped them on Ned’s bed. The first was a list of measurements and symbols that Ned didn’t know. There was a note scrawled along the bottom warning that the fat stag will need more than the falcon. The second was a deed naming Janos Slynt as a Lord, it was signed by the Queen and bore her personal seal. 

The third document made Ned so angry he crumpled it in his fist before smoothing it back out again to finish reading it. It was a list of his household, his guards, even Septa Mordane and Vayon Poole. Three names on the list were circled: his name and those of his daughters. 

The fourth document was a Letter of Rights for 10,000 gold dragons made out to Grand Maester Pycelle. It bore the name and seal of Tywin Lannister. 

“What did the Queen say?” Ned asked the King.

Robert scoffed.

“She said that they were forgeries,” the King explained, “she accused you of treason against the Crown.” 

“How could I have...” Ned began angrily.

The King held up a hand placating. 

“I know,” the King said simply, “I have ordered the Queen to remain in her Chambers.”

“Robert,” Ned said, using the King’s first name for the first time since he had become King, “do you trust me?” 

“What kind of question is that?” the King demanded angrily, “I love you as a brother...more than either of the brother’s the gods gave me.” 

“Then listen to me,” Ned urged, “the Lannisters aren’t just plotting against my family but against you.

“These are instructions for how to poison you,” Ned insisted, “Pycelle treated Jon Arryn... the falcon, right before he died.

“...and once you were dead the Lannisters would have attacked my family. That’s what Littlefinger died to expose.” 

“It’s not enough, Ned,” Robert said, shaking his head. 

“They killed Jon Arryn,” Ned said angrily.

“We don’t have any proof of that,” the King insisted, “and we can’t act without proof.”

“The Queen...” Ned began.

“The Queen will remain in her chambers for a day,” the King said firmly, “long enough to remind her who is King.

“Then she’ll go back to making my life miserable,” the King finished, “and you will go back to running my kingdom for me.

“I was meant to go on a hunt today,” the King said, rising to leave Ned’s rooms, “I’ll put it off for a week, until this mess with Baelish is sorted and you’re back on your feet.”

“Your grace,” Ned said as the King turned to leave, “might I send my daughters back to Winterfell?” 

Robert turned on him angrily and then paused. 

“We had an agreement,” the King said quietly.

“There’s still plenty of time for that,” Ned pointed out, “they’re both too young. I would like for Sansa to see the North again before she marries.” 

The King nodded. 

“Very well,” the King agreed.

“Master Tyranys has asked to quarter his men with mine,” Ned said to the King after only a moment’s hesitation. It was not the first time he had lied to Robert, though he hoped it would be the last.

The King made a noise of disgust.

“I won’t be feeding them,” he announced. 

“I’ll pay for it,” Ned said, though he found himself wondering if he had the coin to manage it, “if you allow it.”

“Fine,” the king said distractedly, “I suppose I will have to sit in court now.” 

“That seems likely your Grace,” Ned agreed, trying not to smile.

“You will be back on that throne tomorrow even if I have to carry you there myself,” the King said, annoyed, “there is nothing I hate more than listening to people moan about their woes.” 

The King left the room and Master Tyranys entered once again. 

“I assume my men are to be quartered in the Red Keep?” Master Tyranys asked. 

“My apologies,” Ned said, “I didn’t mean to presume.” 

“I said they were yours,” Master Tyranys said simply, “and I meant it. I will of course ensure their needs are looked after as is proper.”

“Thank you,” Ned said gratefully. 

“I must confess I had a quick glance at a rather dull looking book on your desk outside,” Master Tyranys told him, with a trace of guilt. 

“Oh,” Ned said, “that is something Grand Maester Pycelle provided, Jon Arryn was reading it when he died.” 

“Why would Jon Arryn need to study the lineages of the Great Houses?” Master Tyranys asked, perplexed, “surely he learnt as much in his boyhood.” 

“And more,” Ned admitted, “he knew Westerosi houses better than most lords.” 

“I had forgotten you were his ward,” Master Tyranys observed. 

Normally Ned was a cautious man and not quick to trust strangers. While Tyranys was unproven in Ned’s eyes, Lord Manderly spoke highly of him and his people had prospered in their short time in the North. 

“Jon Arryn was also visiting Robert’s bastards,” Ned told Master Tyranys. 

“By the old gods and new,” Master Tyranys said, a look of sudden comprehension dawning on his face, “how did the King react when you told him?” 

“I haven’t told him anything yet,” Ned said, confused. 

“But...” Master Tyranys seemed to share his confusion, “surely he should know that you doubt the parentage of his children.” 

“What?” Ned demanded in shock. 

“That had not been your conclusion?” Tyranys asked. 

“No,” Ned admitted. 

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. None of the Royal children: Joffrey, Myrcella or Tommen resembled Robert in anyway. 

“Bring me the book,” Ned instructed distractedly.

Master Tyranys obeyed without further question, apparently unconcerned at being treated like a servant. He brought the book to Ned and handed it to him. Ned began to read. The dread growing in his stomach with every page. 

“All Baratheons have had black hair,” Ned informed Master Tyranys as he put the book aside some time later, “even when Baratheon and Lannister wed, their children are still dark haired.”

“It seems like something that should have come up sooner,” Master Tyranys observed. 

Ned nodded. 

“Robert’s wrath will be vast,” Ned contemplated, “he will slaughter the children for this.”

“Yes,” Master Tyranys agreed.

“It is hardly their fault,” Ned pointed out. 

“You cannot give the Queen time to act,” Master Tyranys told him seriously, “the King is not a well man and if he dies you will be left without a friend in this City.” 

“I will not allow Robert to murder children,” Ned fumed. 

“Then stop him,” Master Tyranys agreed, “but you must not warn Cersei. Given the chance she will kill the King, you and your entire family and household.” 

“Take my daughters,” Ned ordered, “I want them on a ship and ready to leave before nightfall.”

“The Unchained will guard the Lady Sansa and the Lady Arya with their lives,” Master Tyranys promised, “but please do not send me from your side.” 

The Unchained were a small group of eunuch soldiers that were part of the diverse population of Stonegarden. While the notion of eunuch’s offended Ned, the idea of capable warriors with no interest in women guarding his daughters was comforting.

Ned eyed Master Tyranys. He did not truly know the man and he was loathe to trust anyone in King’s Landing. Given the choice of bannermen, Ned would have never chosen Tyranys. He could think of a dozen of his retainers who would have been a better choice to support him. Yet he was hardly overwhelmed by his options.

“Very well,” Ned agreed, “ask Alyn to have the girls ready to leave and then to bring them to see me. In the meantime, have your ship ready to depart at once and bring your men to the Hand of the Tower.”

“Yes my lord,” Master Tyranys agreed and hurried to obey. 

Ned sat and waited for his strength to return and thought of how he would tell Robert the truth and how his old friend would react.


	3. Stonegarden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I had hoped this might garner more interest. Anyway, I am mainly writing this for my own enjoyment. Hopefully some other people enjoy it as well.
> 
> For those who might be confused by the date, this isn't so much a flashback as some non-linear storytelling.

The Neck  
297AC

The party that came to greet Ned on the road was one of the queerest he had seen. A full fifty horse rode out to meet him. Twenty were knights of Westorosi birth only recently taken into Master Tyrannys' service. Twenty were of the Brindled Men, the company of former Volantene slave soldiers that made up the bulk of Stonegarden's swords. The remaining ten were men of mixed birth and heritage and called themselves Pit Lords. Two had the conical heads of Jogos Nhai, three were Dothraki, one wore the garb of a bearded Priest of Norvos and the remaining four Ned could not have even guessed but might have come from any land from between Westeros and Asshai or beyond. 

The officer that road out to meet him was the Castellan of Stonegarden Ser Wendel Manderley. 

"Greetings my Lord Stark," Ser Wendel boomed. Wendel was a large man. In comparison to his lord father Wyman he looked positively lean, yet in the company of narrow wasted former slaves and sell swords Wendel looked enormous.

"Ser Wendel," Ned returned, "your Lord father sends his greetings."

Ser Wendel smiled. 

"Master Tyrannys asked me to escort you to Stonegarden."

Ned and his escort were joined by the Stonegarden men. The Westerosi Knights road behind them while the Brindled men and the Pit Lords road ahead.

"Master Tyrannys has taken knights into his service," Ned noted out loud.

"Yes my Lord, he now has fifty Knights in his service including myself," Wendel boasted.

"That is a large number of swords," Ned noted carefully.

"Indeed," Wendel agreed, "when coupled with the Brindled Men, the Pit Lords and the Masters personal guard he will be able to field an army the rival of many Lords."

Ned decided to let that comment stand, though he knew it would be one that would trouble many of his banner men. While Wendel was an honourable man, a fine knight and a capable warrior, he lacked the brilliant mind of his father of his brother. They rode in companionable silence for a time.

"You will soon be able to see Stonegarden my lord," Ser Wendel promised.

"I half expected to smell it by now," Ned admitted.

Ser Wendel laughed though Ned hadn't meant it as a joke.

"Master Tyrannys has some queer ideas about such matters," Ser Wendel admitted.

"The sewers are all underground here," Ser Wendel explained.

"How is that possible?" Ned demanded.

"Apparently it is a Valyrian invention my Lord," Ser Wendel explained, "the water from the aqueduct is used to keep the waste moving."

"...and in Winter?" Ned wondered out loud.

"Master Tyrannys believes it will still work," Ser Wendel said confidently, "apparently the Braavosi use a similar system."

"This is not Braavos," Ned said sharply, "Winter is coming."

"Master Tyrannys will be ready when it does," Ser Wendel assured him, "he has spent years preparing." 

Ned nodded.

"What of food?" He asked.

"Master Tyrannys has now established more than a hundred farms on cleared land," Wendel said.

"Defences?" Ned asked.

"Stonegarden swords visit each homestead once each moon," Ser Wendel explained, "and Master Tyrannys has raised two towers at his own expense.

"Each is responsible for fifty farms."

"He has granted land to Knights?" Ned demanded

"With my father’s blessing," Ser Wendel assured him.

"Though only One is a knight, Ser Brynden of the White Knife," Ser Wendel went on, "the other was one of the Brindled Man though he decided to take the Northern title Master."

"You keep your father updated?" Ned asked Wendel, perhaps a little bluntly.

"As does Master Tyrannys, he encourages me to as well," Ser Wendel assured him.

"Master Tyrannys takes his loyalty to my father very seriously."

The land to either side of the White Harbour road was cleared of land. Ned could see animals grazing and queer crops he did not recognise.

"What of the Crannogmen?" Ned asked. 

"Some are angry," Ser Wendel conceded "but many have come to work on the farms or in Stonegarden itself.

"Those who lost land were fully reimbursed with coin and many now serve Master Tyrannys directly or in our lands.

"Master Tyrannys has also made a point of winning over the Lords of the Neck.

"He has feasted the Lords of Boggs, Cray, Fenn and Peat and given gifts to Lord Reed that a Prince would envy.

"Most importantly he has brought silver into the region...gold even and most valuable of all... Grain. 

"I doubt any of the Crannogmen will go hungry this winter."

Ned privately disagreed though he kept those thoughts to himself. Settling the newcomers at Eastern-most part of the Neck had been Jon Arryn’s idea. Ned had only supported it with Lord Howland Reed and Lord Wyman Manderly’s blessing.

"What of these gifts then?" Ned asked curiosity.

"A dragon bone bow," Ser Wendel said, a touch of envy in his voice, "for Lord Reed and a spear with a Valyrian steel point for his daughter."

"His daughter?" Ned said shocked.

"Yes apparently she is quite he huntress," Ser Wendel explained, "Lord Reed indulges her passion and so was quite grateful to Master Tyrannys for his generosity."

"No doubt," Ned said thinking of his younger daughter back at Winterfell.

"The Crannogmen themselves are unlikely to be swayed by gifts made to their lords," Ned warned.

"No," Ser Wendel agreed soberly, "but any man that works for Master Tyrannys can send the spare grain they earn back east.

"Cart fulls and boat loads of grain travel into the neck every second day...all bearing the broken chain of Stonegarden."

Their party finally caught sight of Stonegarden in the distance. It had brilliant white walls, surrounding a large and growing township. The township was set against the cliffs. The "gap" a crevasse two hundred feet deep divided the town proper from the Castle, which the residents had taken to calling “Stonetree”. Even from the distance Ned could see the Castle hadn’t finished construction, though it was much further along than he might have expected. 

Five towers reached up into the sky, of these only one was incomplete. As his party crested the last hill, Ned could see that the Castle on the south side of the Gap was also surrounded by a thick curtain wall. 

“Stonetree looks nearly finished,” Ned said, obvious surprise in his tone.

“Master Tyrannys has half a dozen master stone masons and three times as many lesser masons working to finish it,” Ser Wendel informed him. 

“That is a lot,” Ned said flatly. 

Along with the Castle and the squat guard tower at the centre of the town, Ned could also see the massive aqueduct which ran roughly south-east from wetlands more than twenty miles distant. The aqueduct was an impressive looking construction, even if Ned thought it excessive. In all the settlement looked like it had stood for a hundred years, not the mere eight since Tyrannys had crossed the Narrow Sea. Ned said as much to Wendel. 

“Yes my Lord,” Wendel agreed simply, “a number of merchants and members of my father’s court scoffed when they heard of the gold Master Tyrannys was spending. 

“They said he was a madman, throwing gold at stones.

“Then when my father inspected after the first year he remarked ‘the stones of Tyrannys’ garden appear to have grown, my lords’,” Ser Wendel said proudly. 

“…and so was born the name Stonegarden,” Ned finished for him. 

He had heard the story before. Ser Wendel looked a little put out, though he was soon smiling again. Few things seemed to affect the Wenderly knight’s boisterous disposition or long.

Master Tyrannys himself stood at the main gate. The sturdy steel and metal gates were opened. Behind him Ned could make out the dual portcullis which also protected the main entrance.

On either side of him stood two rows of spike-helmeted Unchained. All one hundred of them bowed in unison as Ned rode into view. The wide walls of Stonegarden were lined with the smallfolk. The varied peoples which made up the township gave the assembly a colourful appearance and the smells and spices of a dozen different types of food wafted from the houses on the far side of the wall. 

Master Tyrannys himself stood at the opening. In addition to the Unchained, another group of Pit Lords stood behind him. The Pit Lords were dressed in clothes and armour as rich and varied as one might expect from men who won their freedom fighting for entertainment. Yet, standing in the middle of so much pageantry, Master Tyrannys looked… plain. He wore a simple tunic, black as was his custom. His clothing bore no ornamentation of any kind. Though the sword which hung at his waist was worth a small fortune, Ned had seen Tyrannys fight and knew he had earned it. 

“Stonegarden is yours, Lord Eddard Stark,” Master Tyrannys told Ned formally, “please be welcome.”

The people gave a cheer. On either side of the gate the Unchained warriors slammed their long spears against the shields. 

Thrum. Thrum. THRUM-THRUM.

Ned was surprised when Tyrannys led him to the yet unfinished Castle Stonetree. He had expected that they would stay at the Tower at the centre of the Township which Tyrannys had named the Falcon Tower in honour of Jon Arryn. When asked Tyrannys explained that while the Castle was not finished, most of it was fit to live in. What’s more with custom generosity he had already granted his former home, the Falcon Tower to Ser Wendel.

That night they dined on a simple meal of fish, fruit and a type of eastern grain that Tyrannys called ruice. The simplicity of the meal and the lack of wine or ale seemed somehow familiar to Ned. Tyrannys ate like the simple sellsword he had once been, not the rich, though low-ranking Lord he had become. Most Lords would put on as fine a banquet as they could afford when a Lord of Ned’s station arrived. However Tyrannys was either oblivious to such niceties or genuinely didn’t care. 

“Are you enjoying your ruice, my Lord?” Tyrannys asked politely. 

“It fills the belly,” Ned agreed. 

Once the dinner had been served Tyrannys had sent away his handful of servants. His Unchained Guards had similarly been dismissed, though nothing short of a direct command from Tyrannys could compel them to leave his side. 

“The taste is queer,” Tyrannys agreed, “but the ruice will grow in almost any soil. It needs a great deal of water, though here in the Neck that is no problem and it keeps well.

“I have put away ten thousand barrels for the Winter,” Tyrannys said proudly.

“A barrel of this could feed a man for a year,” Ned pointed out. 

“Not quite,” Tyrannys disagreed, “and I have more than 10,000 people here.

“We have other provisions of course, if anything I fear we will be over supplied for Winter, but I imagine that should not cause too much distress.”

“No,” Ned agreed. 

“I had heard you were a man after my own tastes,” Tyrannys said apologetically in reference to the humble meal. 

“When Lord Manderly comes I send for cooks from White Harbour and have lampreys shipped in especially.

“I thought you might enjoy more simple fare.”

“I am satisfied,” Ned assured him. 

Tyrannys smiled.

“There is however a serious matter we need to discuss,” Ned said without preamble. 

“The infamous Stark honesty,” Tyrannys noted with a small smile, “please continue.”

“This would be easier over ale,” Ned admitted. 

He rarely drank but he enjoyed a cup with dinner, and it made certain conversations easier.

“I don’t indulge I’m afraid, though I should have offered,” Tyrannys admitted, “Peta run and get Lord Stark some ale,” the last he called out loudly. 

“Yes Master Tyrannys,” the young boy called out from the other side of the door. 

Within minutes Peta returned with a small cask. He expertly opened the cask, poured Ned a cup of ale and handed it to him.

“Thank you Peta,” Ned said to the boy.

“You’re…welcome milord,” he said and stood staring.

“Run along now,” Tyrannys told the boy gently and he smiled fondly as the boy did just that. 

“His mother was a whore,” he told Ned in an undertone once the boy was out of earshot, “she came from White Harbour to escape some debts. 

“In the end she asked me to take the boy on a servant,” Tyrannys shook his head, “as though I needed another, he is a sweet child though and obedient.”

“Have you ever thought of having children of your own?” Ned asked Tyrannys directly.

“No,” Tyrannys admitted, without shame, “I think that is unlikely to be in my future.”

“Most men marry first,” Ned pointed out. 

“Yes,” Tyrannys agreed amused, “though not all men.”

“You need to marry,” Ned told him bluntly. 

“Ah,” Tyrannys said, he took a sip of the herbal tea he preferred and schooled his face to flatness, “I wondered whether you might ask.”

“Lord Manderly tells me you have rebuffed his attempts to find you a bride,” Lord Stark said, not willing to let the matter drop. 

“It would not be fair,” Tyrannys said after a pause, “a woman deserves…a real husband.” 

“You are Master of a prosperous town, you’re people adore you, you rule a small but growing land and a fine swordsman,” Ned pointed out, “many women would be lucky to have you.

“If you are uncertain of joining with one of the other Houses, it would not be unheard of for a Master to wed one of the smallfolk.” 

“You Northerners are exceptionally strange,” Tyrannys noted, shaking his head, “I’m not sure you understand.”

“I understand,” Ned assured the man before he could speak further, “however, you need to understand that a basic duty of a Lord is to wed and father an heir.” 

“I had intended for Wendel to inherit,” Tyrannys admitted. 

“I would not be opposed to that,” Ned admitted, “but some of bannermen would be uneasy if the Manderly lands grew once more. 

“Already many feel they have become too powerful,” Ned shook his head.

“They have lived here for a thousand years,” Tyrannys pointed out flatly.

“Yes,” Ned agreed, “by Northern standards they are a new House.”

“Northerners are strange,” Tyrannys repeated.

“Yet you are one of us,” Ned told him gently, “what a man chooses to do in his bedroom is his business.

“But a Lord, even one without the Title, must marry. People are already talking.”

“Let them talk,” Tyrannys said tiredly, “the Volantene fool, the rich fool, the Valyrian Crannogmen…I have heard it all.”

“I’ve made it clear I will not abide such talk in my presence but it is important that the other Houses accept yours,” Ned told him, “for the safety of your people, do what the people want.”

“I will speak to Lord Manderly,” Tyrannys agreed sadly.


	4. A conversation that should have happened

Kings Landing  
298AC

Ned sent Vayon to fetch the King. Normally, even the Hand would be the one to travel to see the King. However, Ned had Vayon explain that his Lord was not yet able to walk and request the King visit him once again in the Tower of the Hand. 

It had caused Ned near physical pain to send his daughter’s away and it was especially upsetting that he could not accompany them, at least to see them off. Yet he knew they would be safer where they were going. They were to be accompanied by ten of the Unchained eunuch soldiers of Stonegarden, ten of Ned’s own guard and were personally led by none other than Wendel Manderly. 

It was also comforting that Master Tyrannys’ men had moved into the Tower of the Hand, accompanied by the Master himself. That brought his men in Kings Landing to a total of one hundred and thirty even with nearly fifty gone with his daughters. For the first time he had more men in Kings Landing than the Lannisters.

Ned greeted the King in the Solar in the Tower of the Hand. 

“Thank you for coming, your Grace,” Ned told him. 

“Just make sure that leg of yours gets better,” the King told him dismissively, “I won’t have my hunt delayed any longer.”

“Perhaps you should your Grace,” Ned suggested gently, “there is a serious matter we should discuss.”

“If it has anything to do with Jaime Lannister…” the King began angrily.

“No, your Grace,” Ned agreed somewhat untruthfully, “it is about Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella.”

“What about them?” Robert asked, already sounding bored.

“I discovered what Jon Arryn was doing before he died,” Ned told him.

“Running my Kingdom, as you should be now,” the King told him, “I could have told you as much.”

“No, your Grace, he was visiting your true born children,” Ned said.

“That would be quite a task,” Robert agreed without a trace of shame. 

“They look like you Robert,” Ned told him, “I saw a smith’s apprentice at the Street of Steel that only lacked the Warhammer to be a young Robert Baratheon.

“I have seen others too – they all have your eyes, your hair, even the girls,” he finished.

“Well…I pity the girls then,” the King admitted. 

“Did you ever wonder why Joffrey and Tommen look nothing like you, but your true-born children do?” Ned asked him.

"Not all boys look like their fathers," Robert said dismissively.

"Not all sons look like their fathers," Ned agreed with his friend. 

"But your sons do," Ned finished gently.

“If any other man had suggested what you’re suggesting,” the King began, anger in his voice.

“You’d have him executed,” Ned agreed sadly, “that is why no-one else has said it.”

“Others think this?” Robert demanded, with growing rage.

“Jon Arryn knew, Stannis knows, Littlefinger may have known… I am not sure if there are others,” Ned admitted.

“Jon Arryn researched the matter, he studied the histories of Westeros,” Ned told the King.

“What did he find?” the King asked, his voice quiet, dangerous.

“That all Baratheon’s have black hair, even when a Baratheon and a Lannister wed, their children have black hair,” Ned told him.

“Since the founding of your House, until Gowen Baratheon not seventy years ago… when a Baratheon married a Lannister the children are black haired.

“Until Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella,” Ned finished.

There was a long silence. Normally Ned was comfortable with silence but this was torturous.

"I always thought…they didn’t look like me," he said finally.

"Your Grace..." Ned began, but the King didn't hear him. He was lost inside himself.

"Robert," Ned said, the King looked up at him, "I have loved you as a brother.

"The gods took my older brother from me but they gave me another.

"Just as they took my father and gave me another..."

"Jon Arryn," when the King spoke his words were soft and feeble, like man of sixty years and six.

"The Lannisters murdered our father," Ned told the King looking him directly in the eye.

"They crippled my son and plotted to murder my household.

"They killed my men... out of spite.

"They are an enemy as dangerous as the Targaryen’s and even less honourable... the mad King didn't feign friendship as he slaughtered my kin."

The King nodded and a familiar calm settled over him. It was the calm before the storm. Whenever blood was spilled Robert would lose himself in the slaughter...but in the hours and days preceding it - those were some of the few times Ned ever saw his friend truly....tranquil. It was as though he saved his rage, his passion and his fury for battle...and the celebrations which followed.

“By the Old Gods and the New,” Robert said, “I declare that Cersei Lannister is a traitor and that her children are bastards.”

“They are innocent,” Ned insisted, “it is Cersei that has betrayed you, I don’t even think they know…”

“Yes,” the King agreed, “they will not be harmed, but Cersei will face the King’s justice…”


End file.
